


You Again

by trashmadame



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmadame/pseuds/trashmadame
Summary: An AU where the war didn’t happen, no functionalist slag—it’s just a template for a good gay ol’ time.Years later, Ratchet meets a familiar lookin’ mech, a criminal, at a local Swerve’s.





	1. After all these years

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a writer and I have terrible grammar, but I was just really really thirsty.
> 
> Will update when I feel like it haha

Work passes by him in a haze—long and strenuous stretches of light and hands with data pads cross his memory, but nothing retains in his processor. 

 

Ratchet clocks out and stomps with an outsider’s perception of confidence. He tries not to think about the mech waning with a scream on his slab, who died screaming for his long gone spark mate before finally succumbing to burn out. The dents on his arms have not yet been fixed. There just hasn’t been time. 

 

He thinks often of how, despite being a world that narrowly avoided a civil war, it is no where near what a peaceful world should appear. He gives what he can: a handful of shanix to a mech slumped in an alleyway and pro bono appointments in his apartment when he can manage the time, but the grind is endless. He’ll see that alleyway mech die from starvation on his slab. He’ll keep giving the same diagnosis until the mechs without enough shanix for the one surgery to save them succumb to their illnesses. Again, on his slab.

 

Ratchet ignores a ping from Orion Pax. He’s sure he’ll get something akin to a lecture later in the week, but he needs to unwind. 

 

—

 

Swerve immediately slides him a strong cup of engex. Ratchet has been enough of a repeat customer to not have his drinks watered down. 

 

He downs the cup in one gulp. Another is in his hand before he can blink. He smirks at the seeker who placed it slyly into his palm, and saunters away further into the bar. Streaks of gold and blue and red pass by him in a blur. 

 

He feels a light brush on his aft and just chuckles at the attempt. 

 

He imagines Pax gruffly lecturing him tomorrow morning. 

 

“These aren’t the academy days anymore, old friend.” He’ll say in that gentle voice of his. Ratchet knows, each time, that he only cares for his well being. 

 

Still, he scoffs at the thought, and steals another cup of engex from a dark hand. Before he could even take a sip of the contents, the hand flies up to grab his wrist. 

 

It uneases Ratchet as the fingers fall into the dents on his arm. He shakes the memories away and looks up into laser-red eyes.

 

They both recognize each other instantly, but don’t dare to even show it in their optics.

 

Deadlock snarls. “Who do you think you are, _medic_?” He tries to snap the medic’s arm closer to him. 

 

Ratchet barely flinches, optics glued uncomfortably to Deadlock’s. He slowly pulls his arm closer and closer, and slowly drinks the engex in one, long sip. He can barely contain a smile, hearing the all too familiar click and whirl of cooling fans. In one move, he unlocks his arm from Deadlock’s grip, and replaces it with the empty cup. “I owe you one, sweetspark.” He winks, and saunters off again. 

 

Deadlock huffs, slamming the empty glass against the wall and frightening a minibot who happens to be standing just below the shower of broken glass. “Unbelievable.” He mutters, trying to contest the memories of the medic who saved his life in Rodion to this… _lush_. 

 

Still, he finds himself staring at the medic’s aft. It sways, teasingly—maybe it’s the engex in his system, he’s not fully sure. 

 

And he finds himself watching Ratchet all night. Lust turns his tanks, and he feels an unfamiliar sense of possession.

 

_Slag_ , he thinks, and tries to remember why he ended up in this dive bar. He glances irritably at Misfire, who catches his icy gaze and just lazily smiles in response. 

 

“Relax, Deadlock, that’s why we’re here. Also, caught ya lookin’ at that medic earlier.” Misfire croons, a can of cheap engex swirling in his hand. He takes a long sip and crushes the can, tossing it vaguely into the thickening crowd. “I heard back in the day he was called something like Party Ambulance.” 

 

Deadlock hides a wince. Instead, he grins, fangs flashing mischievously. “Huh.” 

 

The mostly magenta mech just rolls his optics, catching the feigned attempt as suavity. “Yeah, ok, I’m gonna just go over there.” Misfire waves his hand and squeezes through the crowd towards the bar. 

 

Deadlock drops his expression and goes back to brooding. His eyes naturally fell to Ratchet, laughing with a handsomely tall mech painted a matte blue and an arm around a seeker with twitchy wings and nearly glittering red accents. He narrows his optics at the sight of Ratchet kissing, hands of different colors on his windshield and thighs. 

 

“Aft!” Deadlock grinds, and stalks up to the display. He reaches in, aggressively grabbing Ratchet, and pulls. 

 

The crowd around him parts immediately, and it feels nearly dead silent even with the awful music blaring so loud cups of engex seem to vibrate. 

 

Ratchet is looking at Deadlock with wide optics, before they quickly settle into somewhere between absolutely smashed and uncontested lust (and Deadlock catches him, again, flicking a nervous look to his grip). His field feels like coy fingers, prickling at Deadlock’s seams and tickling the sensitive cables underneath.

 

Deadlock swallows and jerks the medic closer, dipping his helm to whisper, “I think you’re far too pretty to be in a place like this.”

 

Said pretty medic throws his head back to bark a laugh. He dodges out of Deadlock’s grip on his arm and clasps his hand around Deadlock’s. “Well, do you have a better place in mind?” 

 

Lights swirl like shooting stars as Ratchet is dragged out of the bar (Swerve yelling behind him that just because he’s a medic and fixed up his nagging rust infection doesn’t mean he gets free drinks), and somewhere dark and a bit cold.

 

His back painfully crushes against a wall. He hisses, and yelps as he’s lifted up with ease from the floor. His feet dangle, the tips of them just barely scraping the ashy waste on the ground.

 

Firm hands on his aft--he focuses his optics onto Deadlock’s burning red optics. He feels the mech’s lust pressed against his own—desperate and absolutely _hungry_. He drags his glossa across his lips and smiles. His own array aching, he approves the request to snap open his panels, freeing his valve to the open air. 

 

He can already see Deadlock’s spike, erect, and gasps in intervals as he’s slowly lowered. “Hh-ha!” He breathes, barely hearing his voice over cooling fans. He squirms on the spike, the tips of his feet just barely scraping the floor. He feels full and complete, the lust clouding over his needling thoughts like smoky exhaust.

 

Deadlock’s breath hitches as Ratchet raises his arms leisurely, his back arching as he pushes his chest forward. The windshield gleams teasingly in what little light that cracks through the alleyway. And Deadlock smiles. 

 

Each deep stroke of the spike in Ratchet’s valve feels like absolute bliss. It takes only a few long thrusts before Ratchet is sent tumbling into a strong overload. He nearly screams, static cutting the final half of his cry. And Deadlock keeps pounding him through overload and overload— _slag_ his _spike_ —and Ratchet sobs through his fifth overload. 

 

And finally, Deadlock tips over the edge, transfluid filling his frag partner so thoroughly it splashes down his leg. He looks down on Ratchet’s face, completely in bliss with exhaustion. 

 

And he quickly packs away his field as guilt tears through him like lightning. 

 

Not fast enough, but Ratchet doesn’t dare ask what the guilt was for. He thinks, briefly, about this mech he saved in Rodion all those years ago. And he, only briefly, considers reaching up to pull the sordid mech close to his chest.

 

Instead he smiles, knocks on Deadlock’s chest. “Thanks for the ride, speedster.” 


	2. Trains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly trying to figure out where I want to go with this.

The next morning, Ratchet awakes to several pings from Pax and an aching valve. He checks the time and nearly falls off his berth. 

 

First Aid gives him a knowing look as Ratchet tears into the office before turning back to his data pads. “Even when you’ve drunken yourself into offline you’ve never been _late_ before.”

 

Ratchet makes a disapproving sound, but doesn’t do anything to follow up the threat. “Any progress on Makeshift?”

 

“His spark has been more consistent as of this morning. We’re expecting him to pull from his extended stasis any time soon. Also, Ratchet, when will you fix the dents on your arm?” 

 

Ratchet doesn’t flinch, though his optics flicker to the damage. “It’s only been a couple days.”

 

“Longer, actually.” First Aid says. “You were never very good at time management outside of patients.” He doesn’t flinch when Ratchet glowers at him.

 

“Continue on Makeshift.”

 

First Aid’s voice drones on, describing fallbacks that have been noted since the night before.

 

All minor—Ratchet is more than confident that this one can be called a success.

 

Work passes like a haze.

 

The hours tick by him—slow and unbearably fast all at the same time. 

 

Today is a boring day.

 

Ratchet is more than glad. 

 

He doesn’t quite remember when he got home—though not a problem today, a lapse in memory at any other time might prove dangerous. Not a big deal, probably, not as if he’s in any danger. 

 

The lights to Ratchet’s apartment illuminate the large mech standing in wait in the middle of his living room. 

 

This, however, might prove to be his greatest danger.

 

Orion Pax glares at him disapprovingly. “Old friend,” He starts.

 

Ratchet waves at him dismissively. “Don’t.” He walks past Orion Pax to a cart by his recliner. A vintage high grade, crystallized at the edges and mercury floating like beads, is clasped in his hands. He pours himself a glass and turns to his oldest friend. 

 

Orion looks…sullen. The look tears a hole through Ratchet’s spark. “I can only hope that’s your first today.”

 

“I’m not as bad as I used to be.” Ratchet offers. He’s not wrong. He’s slowly weened himself off drinks years and years ago. He drinks leisurely now, not dependently. 

 

He stares at the dents on his arm as he takes another sip.

 

It reminds him of Orion crying out his name with uncharacteristic fear as Ratchet nearly burnt out. Strong arms gripping Ratchet’s wrists, trying to keep his clawed hands from tearing out his own spark. Mania is a side effect of severe withdrawal, and a case as severe as Ratchet’s nearly pushed him into death. 

 

“And it is my first.” Ratchet assures him. “I promise.” He takes another sip as memories of the dying mech who gave him those dents on his arm assault his processor once more. 

 

“Have you tried seeing Rung?”

 

Ratchet nearly chokes on a sip. “I don’t need to see him.”

 

“I think you do.”

 

“I don’t have _time_.” Ratchet punctuates by settling himself into his recliner. He stares off vaguely to some distant space that doesn’t exist. He takes another sip, draining the rest of his cup. He wants another, but he can practically feel Orion’s disappointment churning his spark.

 

Orion falls silent. “I came here for another reason entirely.” He says, finally.

 

Ratchet raises an optic ridge.

 

“Jazz told me he saw you…in his words ‘clangin’ in an alleyway.”

 

“Is that a crime now?”

 

“With Deadlock.”

 

Ratchet’s spark jumps at the name. “Who?”

 

Orion is patient, but Ratchet can hear him cycle patience to air out his frustration.

 

Ratchet leans forward, saying none of the words that bunch up in his throat like tangled cords, and plants his feet flat on his floor. “I’m sorry, Pax. I don’t mean to frustrate you. I…haven’t been very up to date with the news in a while.” He isn’t lying. And he doesn’t say, but the news makes him think of work, and work makes him think of everything that’s wrong. “I’m listening.”

 

Orion seems to smile behind his mouth plate, the soft metal around his eyes crinkling in a way that’s rare to see, even for someone like Ratchet.

 

He instantly becomes stale, however, when he talks of work. “Deadlock is a notorious criminal. A bounty hunter—and that’s only one thing we are sure of him.” 

 

Ratchet doesn’t say the thought in his processor. 

 

He doesn’t want to tell Orion that he was more than fully aware of what he was doing. That he does know who Deadlock is, not just from news feeds and occasional reports from enforcement sectors, but that he still remembers when that face looked at him with optics so wide yet dead it hurt him in ways he couldn’t describe.

 

That the hurt twisted and tangled in his tanks—violently pulled from his spark and knotted into ties so tight he couldn’t possibly use even his most delicate tools to pull them apart—when he saw Deadlock’s name among list of suspected serial killers.

 

That he still hurts. 

 

“Deadlock, huh.” He rolls the word on his glossa. He realizes that he never did catch that mech’s name back in Rodion, and wonders if that really is his original designation. 

 

“Do you understand what I’m saying, old friend?” Orion walks over and kneels next to Ratchet. His eyes, gentle as always, sear through him like ripples of sunlight. “Do not mix yourself into danger. Our society needs you. _I_ need you.”

 

Ratchet softens and places a hand on Orion’s shoulder. He scoffs a laugh. “Next you’re going to tell me to stop going to Swerve’s.”

 

“I do not judge you for your life style. I simply—“

 

“Simply worry, yes, yes.” Ratchet chuckles and firmly pats Orion’s shoulder. A firm, platonic pat. 

 

Orion nods once and rises from the floor. “You know, something about Deadlock seems so familiar. I can’t quite pin the memory.” 

 

“Hm.” 

 

Ratchet pours himself another drink as Orion distracts himself in thought. 

 

—

 

Days go by. 

 

Deadlock falls to the back of Ratchet’s processor. 

 

There is a night where Ratchet suddenly awakes, his interface array _aching_ for satisfaction. He thinks of Deadlock in the alleyway—eyes sharp and blindingly red, denta ground (and Ratchet swears he saw something like _fangs_ ) as the ridiculously over-weaponed mech ground his spike into Ratchet over and over and over—

 

Ratchet yelps as an overload rips through him, and he tosses his head back so far his neck cables ached at the stretch. He sobs and gasps, grinding his thighs together to savor the last ripples of his overload, and releases a satisfying sigh.

 

Days go by. 

 

“Ratchet, your arm.”

 

“I appreciate your concern, First Aid, but—“

 

“Right. Time.” 

 

Suddenly, all major emergency protocols activate. Ratchet immediately runs out and to the closest emergency room. 

 

A drone hovers next to him as he immediately patches the first mech he can get his hands on.

 

“An accident on the freeway. A chase between jets caused collision with the public transit Line C. According to reports—“

 

Ratchet tunes out the report and continues patching. He solders fuel lines and replaces broken plating—his hand is already covered to his wrists in energon—he continues to solder. 

 

When all patients in the room stabilize, Ratchet runs out to the next.

 

Then the next. Then the next. 

 

A major accident like this is not a first time occurrence. Ratchet made his name for his quick hands and quick decisions. 

 

“Pharma!” He cries out as soon as he sees the jet medic in the final room. “Report!”

 

“Emergency room D’s patients have been stabilized,” the one Ratchet was just in, “Emergency room A has the majority of the patients. I’ve done my best to stabilize mech in critical condition.” 

 

Ratchet sweeps the room and immediately examines a poor mech with half his frame in tatters. He peels away thick armor that nearly goops in his touch. “Was there a fire?”

 

“Did you not listen to the report?”

 

“I—“ Ratchet begins, but immediately snaps his attention back to the mech on the slab before him as soon as he hears a groan. “He’s still conscious. Stay with me!” 

 

Static spits at him as the mech tries to speak. With half his helm as crushed as it is, there would be no way he could comm his thoughts to anyone. 

 

Ratchet grits his denta, the tough call on the tip of his glossa.

 

“Call it, Ratchet.” Pharma says.

 

His hands still try. He can feel hot metal dripping into his joints. Awful, searing pain, but nothing close to what this mech is probably feeling. He has to _try_.

 

“Ratchet!” Pharma repeats. 

 

“I won’t.” Ratchet replies. He sees the mech’s spark blink out unceremoniously. 

 

Pharma pushes Ratchet aside. “Then I will make you.” 

 

Ratchet immediately pulls back, nerves in his throat from Pharma’s fingers brushing along the dents on his arm.

 

“Pharma to First Aid—assistance in Emergency Room A.” The jet medic shoots Ratchet a glare. “You are relieved of your duty for the day, Ratchet. At least do that much.” 

 

—

 

Exhaustion weighs his frame. Ratchet watches the ceiling in near absolute silence—the sound of scheduled trains cut through his thoughts. 

 

The door to the office opens and Ratchet sees a winged silhouette creep along the ceiling. 

 

“Your performance today was unacceptable, Ratchet.”

 

He keeps himself still. 

 

“And I know what you’re thinking—that you did your job, that it’s _our_ job to try to save every mech who gets carted into our medibay.”

 

Ratchet watches the frayed edges of the shadow flicker as Pharma’s wing twitch, a habit indicating frustration. He loses himself in the space between the yellow hallway light and the shadowed color of the ceiling—neither here or there, neither a shadow or a light. 

 

“However, as director, my calls are final.”

 

He thinks of the spark that blinked into nothing.

 

A black hole.

 

It swallows him.

 

A deep sigh filled with exhaustion. Not his own.

 

“I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”

 

The door closes.

 

A train passes by, lights melting along the ceiling in vague, quickly shifting shapes.

 

Then, dark.

 

—

 

Years ago, Ratchet was the top medic in all of Iacon. Some argue, even to this day, all of Cybertron. Ratchet only scoffs at these bits of gossip. He does what he has to at the end of the day. 

 

It tore his spark to pieces when he had to close his Rodion clinic.

 

He felt nothing when he lost his position as director.

 

And the long, seemingly endless years as medic weigh heavily on him.

 

Flushing out engines caked with sludge that markets as cheap energon, an infected and neglected wound with rapid rust that could have been fixed with a doctor’s visit, failing legs from overuse in labor—

 

A spark burning out under his hands—from a spark sucking slug or improperly forged or just old age—screaming for someone they haven’t seen for years, and alone.

 

A drink hazes the thoughts, always has, but there came a point where he believed he needed one more than ever. Sometimes he still does.

 

Ratchet gulps down the engex. He turns away from Swerve’s concerned expression. 

 

The bar is nearly empty tonight. 

 

“No party, huh?” Ratchet comments with no particular conversation in mind. The air is too quiet for his liking. 

 

“I heard there was an awful accident downtown.” Swerve says, cleaning a glass—a seemingly endless task.

 

Ratchet taps his own cup for more. “Not too many casualties, fortunately.” He sips his newly filled cup, focuses on the acrid taste.

 

“You look like the back end of Unicron.” 

 

“Charming. Oh, regarding the tab—“

 

“Don’t worry about it. Someone else paid for you.”

 

Ratchet narrows his optics, confused. “Who?” 

 

“Your, you know.”

 

Ratchet narrows his optics, angered. “Who, Swerve.”

 

Swerve smiles, widely. “Ok, ok, don’t get mad—you should weaponize that glare of yours—that mech who took you to the alleyway and splashed transfluid all over my waste bins.”

 

Ratchet winces.

 

“Hey! It’s all good. He paid the tab _and more_.” Swerve chuckles. “Gonna get myself some new taps. Should’ve replaced them a long time ago, but hey—no problems yet!”

 

“Other than the time your taps only spewed solvent and flushed waste.”

 

“Good times!”

 

Ratchet begins to argue, but is instantly distracted by the mech who walks into the bar. Arousal hits him—washes over him like hot solvent. He instantly puts the glass to his mouth, the engex lapping onto closed lips. He thinks of Orion’s warning, that this mech is a dangerous criminal. That he _fragged_ a dangerous criminal, and the next frag can lead to something more than just a sore valve. Still, the memory plays in his processor over and over again. He ignores requests to open his panel— _slag_ , it’s as if it was the academy days all over again.

 

Swerve claps his hands. “What’ll it be, boss!” He cries out.

 

Deadlock gives him a dismissive glance. “Whatever this one is drinking.” He says, cocking his chin to Ratchet. 

 

“Not sure if someone with your credit bracket would wanna drink what the doc here likes to down.” Swerve replies, but slides over a cup to Deadlock regardless. 

 

Ratchet observes Deadlock as the bounty hunter downs his first cup. He notes the immediate cosmetic differences from the broken mech in his memory banks—additional armor to increase bulk and height, much of it military grade however by Unicron this slagger got his hands on that.

 

He wonders if that much additional weight put any strain on Deadlock’s original frame. It must. 

 

“Disgusting.” Deadlock spits, hacking on the remnants in his throat.

 

“Told ya! This location may be a dive, but even I wouldn’t ever want to stock something this low grade on my shelves. Doc here is the only reason why I do.”

 

Ratchet smiles and shrugs, throwing back the rest of his drink. He locks eyes with Deadlock, who seems to glower at him. 

 

Internally, Orion’s voice lectures him.

 

Well, slag him. 

 

He smirks, optics half-lidded, stretching his spinal strut and sighs. 

 

Deadlock shifts, his field crackling with arousal. He leans onto the bar, melting from guarded to inviting. He licks his lips, probably to catch the rest of the engex—ah, those fangs again.

 

Swerve is uneasy being sandwiched between fields buzzing with desire.

 

“Listen, I’m not here to tell you how to live your lives. Just don’t do it next to my waste bins again. That’s disgusting, I have to touch those things.” 

 

“Do you ever shut up?” Deadlock hisses without breaking eye contact.

 

“No.” Ratchet replies for Swerve. 

 

—

 

Deadlock feels the lust in Ratchet’s field—felt it the moment he walked into the bar. It’s awfully distracting, intoxicates him more than the awful sludge he downed just several kliks ago. 

 

He doesn’t know why he’s here again—dragging Ratchet out of Swerve’s, his own array screaming for release. He’s thought of their tryst over and over again the past several days. The way Ratchet’s body wriggled on his spike and the nearly unbearable heat of his chassis against his own.

 

His own hands on his spike and valve don’t suffice. He needs to imagine the way Ratchet’s optics dim, how his chest plate heaves after each thrust, and the peaks of cables and protoflesh between panels. 

 

The need _angers_ Deadlock.

 

They end up in his loft—high rise, suspiciously expensive for someone like him. His neighbors don't dare question his status.

 

They’re locked together the instant Deadlock closes his door. He pulls Ratchet up, hands cradling his aft, and shivers as he feels quick hands prodding between seams on his sides and back. 

 

Ratchet lies back on his berth. He opens his legs, inviting, absolutely obscene. His optics are dim, his field heavy with lust. 

 

Deadlock dives straight in, pressing his mouth onto Ratchet’s neck, cables pulsating under his lips. Slowly, he pushes his spike forward. He drags the head of his spike along the folds of Ratchet’s valve, igniting clusters of nodes.

 

Ratchet whines. “Faster!” He snaps, and is rewarded exactly that. He cries out from the sudden fill, overwhelmed and almost pained from feeling every inch of him prick and tingle. 

 

A gruff chuckle vibrates in Deadlock’s throat.

 

He slowly grinds his hips against Ratchet’s—slow and smooth motions. He can feel blasts of desperation in the medic’s field, but he ignores the need for immediate satisfaction. “I have you to myself all night, why end it so soon?” 

 

He nips his way along down Ratchet’s neck cables, scraping a fang in-between each sensitive wire. 

 

“Oh!” Ratchet breathes. His vision hazy—he feels afloat. He sighs, leaning his helm away, giving Deadlock more room to explore.

 

They stay like this for hours. Deadlock lazily grinding the base of his spike against Ratchet’s valve.

 

And Ratchet feels exhausted being tossed to and fro the edges of completion. He’s beyond sensitive, he feels numb, and it’s almost amazing. 

 

Then Deadlock, finally, pulls his spike all the way out, painstakingly slow. Ratchet gasps at the sensation—to feel hot, pulsing warmth slide so effortlessly out of him, and the ghost of the fill drives him to desire it again.

 

He feels the spike tip rub onto his anterior node, coy, and then crash into him so suddenly he can see stars shoot across his vision. 

 

And with absolute ease, Deadlock pushes into him again and again. It only takes a few quick strokes before Ratchet tumbles into overload. 

 

Deadlock smiles with marvel, leans down to the panting medic to whisper, “Look at you. How easily I can control you.” 

 

Ratchet feels another wave of climax as Deadlock shudders on top of him.

 

He vents deeply, tasting burning ozone on his glossa, and groans as Deadlock quickly pulls out of him and off the berth. 

 

Again, he feels a lick of guilt in the bounty hunter’s field. 

 

He wants to ask.

 

He doesn’t.


End file.
